


a dream of breakfast

by ninemoons42



Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Breakfast in Bed, Chris Evans is a sweetheart, Established Relationship, Holding Hands, M/M, Sebastian Stan is magical and lovely, Waking Up, civil war premiere tour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6568141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Evans wakes up the morning after the big Civil War premiere, and manages to take a deep bracing breath -- thanks to Sebastian Stan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a dream of breakfast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luninosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/gifts).



> Written as a birthday present for my dearest luninosity.

He wakes up from vodka-flavored wisping whispering anxious mutters in his dreams, from washed-out brick brownstones and forlorn crumpled leaves shivering in unsettled drifting piles along dirt-encrusted sidewalks, and the strange thing is, the images are so pretty that he wants to capture them between his too-big hands, he wants to save them for posterity’s sake, and -- well, what is his life.

Chris sighs and the sound is loud in the hotel room, he can hear its lonely echo as it bounces off the aggressively pastel-pale walls, and -- blankets. 

An extra blanket draped carefully over his feet. He’d been cold last night. He’d left his socks on and stripped the rest of his brand-new red-carpet suit off. His socks are currently covered in an extra blanket.

There is warmth, too, lingering in the creases, lingering in the sheets. A smell of smoke and sea-salt and, incongruously, the insidious tease of perfectly ripe pineapple, like a breeze on a humid tropical hillside, sloping ever-so-slightly south.

He’s alone, right now, and he might not have been alone a few minutes ago, tripping along the fuzzy border between his dreams and the reality of another hotel room -- 

A quiet buzz from the nearest small table. He looks and -- that teacup was not there last night -- 

It’s a text message. 

_You are lovely when you’re sleeping. I hope the dream was nice. You frown, in your sleep, and I worry about you sometimes. I’ve gone around the block to get a few things to eat. Stay warm. I’ll be right back._

Clouds in Chris’s eyes.

He’s not sad.

He’s overwhelmed because -- how, how is he this lucky?

He dashes the tears away. Fumbles to respond to the text message.

_Sebastian. You are amazing. Come back soon._

Getting up with that beautiful luck on your shoulders, weighing you sweetly down, the best kind of albatross. He thinks that Sebastian takes care of him -- sometimes takes _too much_ care of him -- and Sebastian’d walk through flames, he’d put a suit of armor on and go challenge some kind of bloodthirsty dragon if that dragon made the mistake of showing up anywhere near Chris.

Chris -- wants to do the same thing for him. It’s not a tit for tat thing. It has nothing to do with reciprocation.

Because all Chris has to do is look in Sebastian’s direction and feel that -- pull, that inexorable lovely tug, that sturdy knot snugged just beneath his heart. The tug that makes him want to buy improbably sweet coffees and far too many blueberries and probably a gross of different kinds of kittens, and put the lot in a basket only to spill them out at Sebastian’s feet (without getting him splashed with the coffee). The tug that makes him want to talk to Sebastian all day long, and conversely _listen_ to Sebastian all night long. The tug that seems to make him reach for Sebastian’s hands, because Sebastian has amazing hands, always soothing and always grounding. 

Always so _warm_ for all that he piles on the layers in cold weather. 

How is Sebastian so warm and so good, Chris thinks, and then the door to the hotel room opens.

A quick crescendo of hummed notes and a waft of strong coffee, and then Sebastian, his arms full of paper bag, looks at him and tilts his head, and asks, “Why are you red in the face?”

Chris finds himself blurting out the truth. “Because you keep me warm.”

Blink. Blink. Sebastian looks like he’s considering something: looking at something important -- but he’s only looking at Chris, and there’s that voice again in Chris’s head that waits coiled inside him, that is always eager to strike at his anxiety and pour it all out again -- 

No, no, and Chris shakes his head and tries to put those thoughts away -- 

Movement, the rustle of packages being put aside and the bed dipping next to him, and Chris turns his head just in time for Sebastian’s lips to brush gently against his hair. 

“Kiss me,” Chris says, and he closes his eyes and catches Sebastian at shoulder and nape, and Sebastian tastes like burnt caramel. Soft scrape of stubble and warm warm hands. 

Another kiss, and yet another. Chris would fight that theoretical dragon _bare-ass naked_ for kisses like these. The thought makes him grin, a little, and nip at the corner of Sebastian’s mouth. 

Sebastian pulls away, then, and laughs, and says, “Something on your mind?”

“Fighting dragons.”

“Tell me about dragons,” Sebastian says, but then he’s bending over the side of the bed to retrieve his packages. Too many distractions, Chris thinks, as plain white boxes are opened to reveal -- sandwiches. Cardboard cups of soup. A slice of pie topped with syrup-glazed nuts. A bunch of grapes.

“I -- where the hell did you get all of this,” Chris asks, after a long speechless moment. 

“Do you think it’s too much? In my defense, I couldn’t help myself,” Sebastian laughs. “There was this -- it was a fantastic place, it’s a deli and it’s also a coffee shop, and I had to call Anthony and tell him about it, and I was very sternly and seriously warned against _buying everything in the shop_. I was tempted, you see. He said it was the usual response to the place, he’s been there before.”

“When he went there,” Chris asks, “who did he call for advice?”

“You know, he neglected to mention that. We’ll have to make him tell us. Coffee?”

Chris accepts the oversized paper cup gratefully, and kisses Sebastian’s temple in the process. A long, grateful sip. There’s something so wonderfully rich about the heat of the coffee. Soothing, like his nest of blankets and the warmth of Sebastian’s shoulder pressed against his.

Breakfast: the crunch of fresh lettuce. Brine-washed funky cheese. A faint welcome wash of garlic on the croutons floating in the soup. Crumbs on the sheets. 

The food is lovely, the coffee warms him and wakes him up, and they still pale in comparison to Sebastian -- and Chris makes a point out of telling him that.

“You might hurt the pie’s feelings,” is the gently amused response.

“I’ll apologize to the pie, but not because I said something wrong,” Chris says, smiling back.

Some part of him knows that this is a stolen moment, a fleeting gift. Plane tickets for sometime later in the day -- a transfer to an airport and several flights because _Civil War_ is premiering all over the world and so its cast must accordingly scatter to the four winds. He has no idea where he’s going; he suspects Sebastian knows most of everyone’s itineraries. 

He holds Sebastian’s hand, and tries to hold on to that gentle irrepressible warmth. 

The pie, when they finally find the forks for it, is a revelation, and that’s without taking the sweet smoky hint of booze into consideration.

“We are _stealing_ this recipe,” Sebastian declares after two hurried-sloppy bites. “We are going to make this pie our own.”

“And Scott will love you forever and ever.”

“Scott’s lovely and all,” Sebastian laughs. “But I want this pie. I want to be able to have it whenever I want it.”

And Chris has this terrible, terrible urge to bolt out the door -- just as he is, just barely wearing anything, still in last night’s socks -- and run to that mysterious deli of wonderful things. He wants to buy their entire supply of this pie and send all those sweets off with Sebastian -- and he’ll be content with one slice, maybe two, just for himself.

Just enough to let him remember that he’s having this moment with Sebastian, that they get to have breakfast together before they have to head out on their flights.

“I know that look in your eyes,” Sebastian says. “I’ll give you the address of the deli. Maybe you can drop by before you have to catch your flight.”

“Maybe,” Chris says. He takes one of the forks and cuts off a bit of the pie, and offers it to Sebastian.

Here’s another thing Chris wants to capture for posterity: Sebastian’s closed eyes, Sebastian’s mouth speckled with crumbs, Sebastian’s warm hands. He wants to capture this Sebastian, rumpled and replete, with grapes in the palm of his hand.


End file.
